If Fate Was Kind
by WindWhisper352
Summary: England recieves a call from France- America is dying. He goes to Washington, D.C., just in time to say his final goodbyes. Francis seemed to have fallen in love with the distraught Englishman; will he be able to win him over through England's despair? Will England ever be able to open his heart up again? Rated M for England's profanity, and possibly a lemon in later chapters...
1. Chapter 1

Arthur awoke on the couch to the sound of his phone blaring a fanfare ringtone, groggily sitting up from his slouched position to retrieve the loud contraption from the arm of the couch. He flipped open the phone and put it to his ear. "'Ello?" he mumbled into the device with a stifled yawn. The night before hadn't been very restful; actually, for a while he's been a bit of an insomniac, but the little naps he got every so often were enough to keep him mildly sane, at least. He listened, half-awake, but as he heard the person on the other side of the line speak, his eyes were soon wide open in shock and horror. "What about America..?" he asked, just to make sure he'd heard the person correctly, hardly even noticing his least favorite accent speaking to him on the phone.

"Were you even listening to moi? I said, America's in the hospital!" France's voice was irritated and impatient as he repeated the situation to England. "Apparently he was climbing a ladder to replace some kind of light bulb or something, but he slipped and fell and hit his head. You'd better get over here and off your lazy behind," he snapped, sounding both angered and worried, which, England knew, didn't often go together with the Frenchman. This was serious.

The former pirate was out the door in a heartbeat, phone still clutched in his hand as he stormed out to the street. He summoned a cab and directed the driver to take him to the airport. "France, what's his condition? How bad is it?" he inquired, on edge, gripping his knee tightly with his other hand until his knuckles were painfully white, practically glaring out the window and wondering why the hell the driver wasn't speeding down the road like he was supposed to (as it was in England's mind, that is).

France sighed heavily. "Not good, mon ami. I think they told Canada that some of his vital organs are beginning to shut down because of the shock his brain received from the injury." He sounded hesitant, as if he was worried that something bad would happen to America if he said too much, but England decided to ignore that.

The Englishman clenched his jaw. "Damn... That stupid git better just be screwing around," he muttered bitterly, openly rejecting the fact that America, his former little brother, whom he still cared for even after he rebelled, might be lost forever. He simply wouldn't believe it. He couldn't even begin to imagine how he would feel if he lost his little America. He resented each and every reason that had caused America to revolt, but there was nothing he could do now. Hell, it might be too late to even apologize if this stupid driver wouldn't just hurry up...

"Angleterre, he isn't. Are you okay?" France asked hesitantly, a bit worried about the Englishman's previous response.

England blinked, having not even remembered that he still had his phone in his hand until the Frenchman spoke again. "Oh... Yeah. I.. I gotta go. See you in a bit." England promptly closed the phone and his eyes simultaneously, leaning his head against the back of the car seat. Stupid America, getting hurt like that. He felt a lump rise in his throat, and realized that his eyes were beginning to sting with bitter tears. He swallowed the emotions washing over him as best he could and opened his eyes again, staring blankly at the car ceiling until the cab had finally reached the airport. England promptly paid the driver (no tip, of course. He had driven much too sluggishly to get anything like a tip, even from the usually generous Englishman), and stormed into said airport, rushing to a desk to purchase a ticket to Washington, D.C. How did he know America'd be there? Well, firstly, France had specified that as soon as England had answered his phone, before he'd had to repeat himself. Plus, he knew where America's house was; he was sure the paramedics wouldn't (God forbid) take Alfred half across the country to be treated properly.

After buying the plane ticket and being informed that the flight would leave the airport in about a half an hour, England took a seat in a nearby café, burying his face in his folded arms on the table. He was exhausted, but the anxiety eating out his fatigue was just enough to make the Briton feel as if he'd already lost America. He felt so useless at the moment; all he could do was wait while America needed him more than he probably ever had. He then realized that Alfred had always been his first priority, sometimes over himself, because he was the only person (other than Japan, but that didn't really count) that Arthur actually genuinely cared about, and if America was gone, then England would be truly, completely alone... Again. America was all he had left, and though he hardly ever accepted the fact himself, he would have nothing much to care about except keeping that stupid frog the hell out of the UK if America were to die. But... He can't just die... Right? A frown had creased England's lips. It wasn't impossible. Nor was it likely, but anything could happen... All heroes have some weakness. Even self-proclaimed America knew that. Well, hopefully he'd learn his lesson when- _if_, Alfred could manage to weasel himself out of this one.

His morose thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a woman's voice on a speaker cheerfully telling all passengers that the flight leaving to Washington, D.C. at 11:45 AM, would be leaving in 5 minutes. This gave him more than enough time to get up, brush himself off, and proceed to the boarding line, shoving past other passengers without so much as a kind "Pardon me, my little brother is about to die, so move out of my way, stupid git!" As he boarded the plane and waited impatiently for the still-miffed others, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the arm of his chair directly next to a window. His other hand fished in his pocket, extracting his favorite golden pocket watch, which he examined for a moment before stuffing the small token into his pocket again. 11:46. These people needed to work on their promptness promptly or he'd get their non-prompt arses fired faster than you could say "prompt". Fortunately, before the English gentleman could lose all of his shortly-supplied-to-begin-with patience, the pilot had announced that passengers were required to fasten their seat belts (oh, how frustratingly obvious the fact seemed, England thought) before the plane took off. After another seemingly endless list of (apparently absolutely necessary) precautionary warnings, the plane finally began moving, soon lifting up into the sky.

After the plane had landed, Arthur got up and began shoving impatiently past more people to get out of the rather cramped area. Once in the airport, he rushed toward the exit, as soon as he was outside calling a cab, directing the driver to take him to the hospital ("And step on it," he added). At least now the driver actually seemed to heed his directions, and when they arrived in the hospital parking lot minutes after England entered the cab, the Englishman paid the driver with a generous tip, then hurried out of the car, practically sprinting into the hospital.

Once he'd opened the door he saw the actually relieving back of a blonde man, whom he immediately recognized as Francis. He walked to the Frenchman, slightly breathless as he approached him. "France... How is he?" he asked, still regaining his breath.

France turned to look at the weary Englishman, an eyebrow raised questioningly, but he didn't voice the inquiry. He just frowned at Arthur, a look which England knew meant something was terribly wrong. "He isn't doing very well at all, mon ami," he told him sadly. "I don't know if he'll make it..." His frown deepened. "In truth, I am surprised he isn't dead already... I guess he was waiting for you," he said, with a sigh. "How horrible today turned out to be... I just got a new girlfriend, too-"

"-Oh, would you stop talking about your damn girlfriends?!" Arthur snapped angrily, interrupting France. "And don't say that... He might pull through yet. Can I see him?" he asked, his large, emerald eyes gleaming with anxiety.

France nodded. "Oui, visitors are permitted," he said, glancing over at the lady at the front desk. "I had actually just seen him myself... He looks terrible... Do you want me to accompany you?" France looked concerned for the Brit, and that only made Arthur angry. How dare that stupid frog pity him like this? He felt like he was being treated like a child.

He wouldn't resign himself to this. No way in bloody hell. He crossed his arms. "No thanks... I can visit my little brother by myself," he replied coldly, proceeding to the front desk and tapping the table to get the woman's attention. "Oi, I came to see Alfred F. Jones," he said once the lady acknowledged him.

The woman sighed, glancing through a few papers. After a while, she said, "He's in Room 13. Are you family?" she asked, gazing up at England with an emotionless stare.

Arthur nodded. "Yes. I'm his brother. Thank you," he said, walking down a hallway which was labeled with a sign that said: "Rooms 1-35". Once he was standing in front of the room that America was in, he paused for a moment, clearing his throat before he entered the hospital room.

England's eyes became wide as his gaze fell on the American laying on a gurney, his face pale and deathly in color. The blonde's cobalt eyes were closed, but he wasn't sure if he was awake or not. "Oh my god... America," the Englishman breathed softly, heading over to Alfred and standing beside him. He glanced at the I.V. machine his former sibling was hooked up to and almost let out a choked sob from his throat, a hand placing itself over his mouth in shock. He stared down at the blank face of America, and he felt a large part of himself wither away, and whatever hope there was previously was now gone. He could swear he saw one of the American's eyelids twitch, but it was more than likely his imagination. England sighed shakily, withdrawing his calloused hand from his own face and then placing his hand softly on America's forehead to softly brush his hair from his face, flinching away when he felt how icy cold his skin was to the touch. He could feel tears fill his eyes. "Damn it... How many Americans does it take to change one fucking lightbulb?" he muttered, his own cynical humor seeming all too out of place. He took a seat in a chair beside his dying ally, reaching over to him and taking a chilled hand in one of his own, frowning deeply. "America... I know you probably can't hear me, but... If you can, though... I want you to forgive me, Alfred... I-I don't know what I did... Taxes, whatever... I just need you to know that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, America... Whatever I did to make you leave, I resent it... If it's my fault, if I was treating you badly..." he trailed off, realizing that hot tears were freely streaming down his face, falling from his chin and splattering on the bleached tile floor, closing his emerald green eyes as if in prayer.

America heard England's words faintly, and used whatever strength he could find to squeeze the Englishman's hand softly, the single gesture exhausting him more than he ever expected it to. He parted his dry lips to utter, "Wasn't...your fault... I..just wanted...to prove...myself... I'm..sorry...for hurting you..."

England's eyes snapped open in complete and utter bewilderment. Had America just spoken? Where did he get the strength for that? And, what's more, had he just apologized to him? He knew he didn't deserve it from America. He stared at the other, afraid to speak lest his voice should betray his emotion, but he would risk it just this once, considering the circumstances. "Don't apologize to me. If you'll forgive me, then I'll pardon you. Then, when you're all better, we can get out of here and get you some ice cream," he told him, sounding much more hopeful than he felt.

America sighed faintly. "No... No thanks... I'm..too tired," he replied. "I'm scared... What's going to happen to me if I give in..? I... I don't want to die," he told England, sounding scared and helpless, and for once, England couldn't do a thing about it. If he could hug him like he used to, when America was young and so much smaller than himself, and if Arthur could comfort him with soothing words to push Alfred's troubles away, he would. But now he knew it wouldn't do anything for the younger nation. He felt so terrible for not being able to comfort him now, for not having the ability to tell him everything would be okay, because truthfully, it wouldn't, and America seemed to know this. He sighed. "Alfred... Don't start this now... What happened to the fearless hero, hm?" he asked softly, in a vain attempt to cheer him up.

America made a small whining noise, a truly pitiful sound. "I..don't know... It's... It's too hard... Just talking to you now... It's too much... It hurts.. But it's going away... And it's scaring me so much, England..." His voice was turning to a raspy whisper, weak and so unlike his usual loud and obnoxious shouts.

America's words made England feel even more remorseful. "Oh, America... I'm so sorry... I can't help you," he said sadly, giving America's cold hand a squeeze.

America managed a small smile, apparently regaining some of his cheer, but for what reason? England was at a loss. "Don't worry about it... It's not..your problem," he said quietly, then his once powerful, but now trembling and weak hand let go of England's, unable to hold on any longer. Closing his eyes, he appeared to be struggling to breathe, although it was a battle already lost. Whatever had been keeping the American alive before must've given in; he was gone.

Author's Note- Wow, I am soo sorry. I got a review telling me about the (really bad) order I've put my story into, and realized they were totally right. Since the second chapter was written really late, I think I was probably getting impatient with myself because I wanted to belt out another chapter, so... Yeah, I'm deleting it for now, and changing basically everything into what I'd originally planned for the story; the only thing I may not change, however, is the first paragraph. I apologize for having totally screwed that up, but I'll make it better... Hopefully. xD


	2. Chapter 2

**(Author's Note: Alright... Again, I'm super duper sorry! xD I think I've fixed it. I've changed absolutely every word in this chapter starting with the moment the second paragraph starts, so yeah. Heck, France probably won't be in this chapter... Anyways, thanks for your patience!)**

England stood up abruptly at what would be America's final words, unable to find any proper way to react, but there really wasn't, was there? "America... America, no! Alfred, please... Don't go..." Despair filled the Englishman's heart as he gazed heartbrokenly at the unresponsive America. He felt tears stinging his eyes once more, but he didn't care. He let them fall, burying his face in his trembling hands, sobbing as if he didn't care who saw him, which he didn't. Nothing seemed to matter past his anguish and sorrow, and so he let himself go, all restraints broken.

He was alone. He had always been alone. America was the only exception... Sure, Japan was kind to him, but... He just didn't share that bond with him, like America had. Those bonds, or whatever was left of them, had now been shattered. He _felt_ shattered. And like a crybaby, but was there a person in the world who could point a finger and accuse him of it? Unless that person didn't have a heart, he didn't think so. He wanted to curl up beside the American, to wake him up and hug him, and never let go. But now, he couldn't do it... He would be embracing a corpse, a cold, soulless, and dead American. He had to remind himself of it. Although America's face was practically white, he couldn't help but feel as if the younger nation would 'wake up' and then admit that the joke was on the unfortunate Englishman. No such joke existed. He could feel the cracked remnants of his heart slowly breaking apart, and he couldn't steel himself against the overwhelming sadness and despair.

Lamenting freely, sinking to his knees and taking a gentle hold of the American's icy hand again, England just wanted to warm him and see those bright eyes again. He held on to this feeling of suspense for a moment, but when he realized that it would be too good to be true, he finally let go of the other hand, and his last hopes for Alfred. It couldn't be reversed. Not even his black magic could- wait... Could it? No... Something like that was a last resort. Well, he _was_ at the end of his rope here... He wondered for a moment if America would interrupt him like last time, but then he remembered that it Alfred was whom he would try to revive. Could he do it, though..? Probably not. His lack of sleep definitely took a toll on his strength, and his stamina? Forget it. He'd be just as dead as the person he was trying to revive if he even attempted it now. Not that he cared. He'd rather die than be like this. He had made that decision a while ago, but now he found that the longer he waited, the more he was going to get hurt. He just couldn't stand it anymore. Even his magical creature friends, it would seem, have abandoned him as of late.

After what seemed like hours at America's bedside, keening until his tears ran dry, Arthur forced himself unsteadily to his feet. He ventured another glance at the deceased nation, and he cringed, turning away. "I'm sorry... I'm going to go now... I..." he trailed off, mumbling in a cracked voice, only wishing America could hear. He bit down on his lip to prevent another round of weeping, and he turned the doorknob with an uncontrollably trembling hand, throwing the door open and practically stumbling out of the room. Paying no attention to the strange looks he earned himself, he walked with such distortion that a nurse had stopped him to ask if he was feeling alright.

"Do I look bloody okay to you?! You don't fucking care if I'm okay!" England snapped. He had no patience with the world at this point, and even if a puppy got in his way, he'd kick it. He just didn't care. As the nurse's expression turned to one of surprise, the Englishman walked away before she could reply, just wanting to get the hell away from these idiots. They didn't understand a thing about him; why did they pretend to care about his well-being? He walked more quickly, tears again threatening to roll down his cheeks. Cursing when he managed to flee the hospital without anyone else stopping him, he rushed blindly to the street, summoning a cab to take him to the airport. He just couldn't stay here. It hurt his broken heart to see anything in this country. Everything, every person, reminded him of Alfred. The mockingly cheerful blue sky matched the American's eyes, and it wasn't long before England wished he'd never see a clear sky again. Closing his eyes, he waited until the driver finally pulled up in front of the airport. He got out of the car, paying the cab driver; he probably overpaid him, but he didn't care. He just wanted to get out of there.

Gaze downcast, he made his way into the airport, bumping constantly into other people, but he really didn't care. It's what they deserved for being in his way. He practically knocked over a little boy as well; the child fell backwards on the floor with a surprised grunt, and blue eyes glared up at him. "Hey!" the boy complained, and Arthur glanced momentarily at the child, his heart stopping when he saw the two prominent features. Not only were his eyes the most beautiful shade of cobalt blue, but his hair... He had dirty-blonde hair, parted in the center, and there seemed to be one part of his hair that refused to fall in line, even sticking up stubbornly; the boy looked exactly like America. "A-Alfred..?" the Englishman stammered unsurely.

The boy made a sour face. "What? Do I look like an Alfred to you? That's such a nerdy name... My name's Tyler," he corrected, getting up from the floor and rubbing his backside gingerly. "Man, that really hurt..."

England frowned, furrowing his brows slightly. It was uncanny... but of course it wasn't America. "I'm sorry... Tyler, where are your parents?" he asked, glancing around; the boy was alone, it seemed, as no other adults had come to intervene.

"Huh..?" Tyler looked confused for a moment, but then he soon had a somewhat sheepish grin on his face. "Oh... M-my parents. I dunno... Lost 'em, I guess," he said passively, shifting his weight to his right foot, then to his left; he seemed a bit nervous, the Briton noticed. "I-I'll go find them now... Bye, mister!" Before Arthur could say another word, the boy was gone, having bolted off into the constant stream of people.

England frowned a bit, watching the crowd in which Tyler had disappeared. He didn't seem very sure of himself, Arthur noted. But, it wasn't any of his business... He'd probably never see the child again. Heaving a heavy sigh, the Brit went to buy a plane ticket back to London. Luckily the boy hadn't stayed to chat any longer, since the plane was just about to depart.

Boarding wasn't too stressful, but he ended up in an undesirable seat, sandwiched between two rather chatty women. The gentleman folded his hands in his lap, gaze falling downward. His eyes clouded a little as he heard the ladies blabbing about how beautiful the weather was, then about the weather in London. Would it be as nice there as it was in America? The women hoped so, but England wished for the exact opposite. He loved the rain. Maybe it's just his mood, but if he saw another blue sky, he might get sick. As the two continued to talk, ignoring the man between them, England closed his eyes and tried to relax a little. He attempted to block out their conversations, as every subject they brought up reminded him again and again of the misery he was in. Somehow, he'd managed to fall asleep, head dipping down awkwardly.

It seemed too soon when the Englishman was roused from his sleep; the plane had already landed and a flight attendant was patting his shoulder gently to wake him up. The Brit muttered something bitterly under his breath, but he opened his weary eyes, looking with disdain at the girl. "Yeah. Thanks," he muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt and nudging past the attendant to get out of the plane. Upon entering the airport, he immediately headed for the exit, undaunted by the rumbling in his stomach. He felt rather hungry at the moment, but for some reason he didn't exactly feel like eating anything. Maybe when he got home he'd have some of the ale he'd stashed in his fridge, along with tequila, vodka, and Italian wine(he refused to get French wine). He had a very large alcohol collection, but he usually cleared out the stock in a week or so, sometimes less.

He decided he could walk to his house from here; it was only a mile or two, and he wasn't in a rush this time. As soon as he stepped out of the airport, he was relieved to find that not only was the air crisp and cool as was the norm, but clouds had completely covered the sky, dark gray shadows falling over London. A light rain had begun, but Arthur knew it wouldn't be too long before it was pouring cats and dogs. Well, hopefully not cats and dogs. He disliked the usage of the phrase, as he was pretty sure nobody really knew what it meant. If they did, however, he was sure that they would use it to describe his floods, where stray dogs and cats that had drowned in the sewers littered the streets when it was raining hard enough. The thought somewhat depressed him, but most of the images in his mind upset him anyways; it was no different than usual.

As Arthur had predicted, the rain gradually grew heavier, but England didn't mind walking in the rain. He enjoyed the cool sensation as the water drops fell on his head and clothes, washing away the pain for a moment. Soon, however, a shiver ran down his spine as the rain began to chill him a bit past the initial comfort. Before he got too uncomfortable, though, he managed to make it home just as the first stroke of lightning illuminated the sky, now an almost-black canvas. When he entered his house, the downpour turned hectic, and he could hear the rain falling like rocks on the roof.

The sounds echoed throughout the empty and dark house, and England flipped on a light switch as he walked into the kitchen, seeking to find the alcohol he promised himself he'd have. Finding a few bottles of dark ale, he pulled them out, placing the glass bottles on the counter, immediately opening one and taking a large draft. He leaned against the counter, looking out the window showing him the dark sky and the occasional lightning flashes. He closed his eyes, sighing as the rumbling noises of thunder seemed to make everything in the large house tremble. His cold and wet clothes clung to his skin uncomfortably, and he shivered occasionally, but he didn't really feel like changing at the moment. Taking another swig of the drink in his hand, he observed the sky gravely, and as rain pelted the window his thoughts turned to Alfred. _Is he in heaven? _he asked himself. Before long, he could feel a warm drop rolling down his cheek. Sniffling a bit, he wiped the tear away, then lifted the ale bottle to his lips and downed the entirety of the drink in a few gulps. Semiconsciously reaching for the second bottle, he popped off the lid and took a few gulps. He began to play a little game with himself; every time his thoughts wandered to the American, or something sad, he'd take another drink.

In less than a few hours, the Brit had consumed about seven bottles of ale, two glasses of wine, and by the time he finished his vodka, the Briton was as drunk as a skunk. However, all of that drinking didn't seem to make him feel any better about anything. In fact, his problems were magnified by his intoxication.

"Alfred... Why did you leave me...? I-I don't want to be alone the rest of my life... I'm always alone... Why can't I make friends like you do..? Why me?" he asked himself miserably. Sniffling, he turned to reach for a box of tissues on the kitchen table, pausing when he spotted the small rack of knives on the tabletop. He reached over to take a knife, then sat with his legs crossed on the floor, twirling the object in his fingers quietly. Wiping away another tear with his still-soaked sleeve, he then rolled the sleeve up his arm slowly, exposing his pale skin. Already decorating his smooth skin were various little slivers of even paler skin; scars. Arthur, without a second thought, brought the blade to his wrist, his hand shaking with both the cold and the inablilty to stabilize itself due to the Briton's intoxication. Pressing down on the knife, Arthur clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw in pain, the blade sinking through his skin and causing a small stream of crimson blood to flow lightly from the small wound. However, the drunk man continued, slicing along his wrist and letting the small amounts of blood to leave his body. One mishap, though, resulted in a larger and deeper wound, and the Englishman dropped the knife, now clutching at his wrist in pain. "Fuck!" he swore, the wound beginning to throb painfully. He froze into place, eyes wide as he stared at the blood seeping through his fingers steadily.

_Arthur, _a voice began, a painfully familiar voice. _Arthur, aren't you going to do something? If you just sit there like that, you'll probably die, you know._

England's eyes darted around the room in alarm. "A..Alfred..?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "America? W..Where are you?" he inquired, wondering if he was just hallucinating; sometimes the voices in his head were really convincing. Especially while he was drunk.

No reply. It must've been his imagination... England felt bitter tears stream down his face. "Damnit... You keep leaving... B-bastard..." However, he slowly rose to his feet, but got dizzy immediately afterwards and had to lean on the table to keep himself upright. He glanced at the tissues again, then decided he'd have to make do, pulling out a few handfuls of the stuff before pressing them against the most troublesome wound, hissing in pain as the contact stung his torn flesh. Pressing the tissues harder to his wound in an attempt to make it stop bleeding, the Englishman slowly made his way into his living room, finally collapsing on the couch, eyes screwed shut in agony. "Ngh... Goddamn fucking son of a bitch!" he muttered, voice strained. As the pain slowly subsided, he opened his eyes and found that the blood had leaked through the tissues, soaking them with crimson. He slowly peeled off the tissues, which had begun to stick to the wound, and sighed a little in relief as he noticed that the bleeding had almost completely stopped. He stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused as he noticed an overwhelming weariness hanging over him, and he closed his eyes. Listening to the slowly-lightening pitter-patter of rain on his ceiling, he was eventually lulled into an unconscious state.


	3. Chapter 3

_I'm sorry, America..._

England woke up abruptly from his dream, or rather, his nightmare, at the sound of a door open and close, but his eyes closed almost immediately when he found that the room was painfully bright. It must have been around noon... Wondering then who could be in his house, his heart skipped a beat. Maybe... Maybe yesterday was all a dream..? Opening his eyes again, he looked around with an uncomfortable squint. However, his heart sank into his stomach when he found that it wasn't who he wanted to see in the room. Actually, it was quite the opposite. France was waltzing around his living room, throwing every curtain open with a flourish. "France... Close the fucking curtains," he hissed, closing his eyes and covering them with his unharmed arm. "How the hell did you get in here anyways? Get out, you git!"

France sighed; the Englishman was obviously hung-over. He reluctantly closed the curtains. "I should've known you had been drinking last night," he mumbled. "You left the front door unlocked, stupid. Anyone could've come in and robbed you, or worse..." He trailed off as he closed the last curtain, then walked to the younger blonde. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then a dark stain on England's shirt cut him off. What was that? He then spotted the bloody clump of tissues lying on the floor next to the couch where England lay, and suspicion stirred inside him. He found the source of the blood, the wounds covering England's wrist, and furrowed his brows. "Angleterre... What is this?" he inquired unsurely. "Sit up," he instructed.

England stayed as he was for a moment, then obliged, sitting up slowly. Every inch he moved caused a large pang in his head, but soon enough he was seated in a (somewhat) upright position. "Accident," he lied coldly, avoiding France's gaze. "It's none of your business anyways."

"It might not be any of my business, but that was still a stupid thing to do! If that was just because America's-" France stopped himself, seeing England's eyes clouding at the mention of the American, then gently lifted the Englishman's wrist up to where he could better examine the wounds. He sighed, letting go. "I'll treat those for you." Without another word, he walked out of the room in search of a first aid kit or something; there had to be something useful in this kind of situation...

In about 5 minutes, France had found what he was looking for and returned to the living room, where England was still sitting in resigned silence. Walking up to the couch where the other nation was, he knelt down in front of him and withdrew the needed supplies and started quietly cleaning the dried blood from the wounds. When he finished cleaning, disinfecting, and bandaging the cuts, he put the unused supplies back into the kit. "Are there any other 'accidents' I haven't seen yet?" he asked the Briton.

"Tch... No, there aren't... Why're you here, anyways?" England asked, glaring at the Frenchman in front of him. His hangover only made him more irritable than he would've been normally, and the Frenchman was unfortunate enough to experience this firsthand.

France stood up again, picking up the first aid kit. "Alfred's funeral is today," he said calmly. "I was told by my boss to come and get you... And oui, you're required to attend," he said, before England could protest.

England scowled, looking away from the Frenchman. "No way in hell! I'd rather die than go!" he said stubbornly, and though the volume of his own voice hurt his head, he remained firm in his refusal. His stomach growled, and an embarrassed blush covered his cheeks. "I-I'm hungry anyways... If you're here, then make me some food or something, frog."

"How rude," France scoffed, but he turned to put the first aid kit back, then to the kitchen. He might as well; if England cooked, it would likely result in further injury to himself. Seeing the knife and some more blood on the floor in the kitchen, France set his jaw, picking up the knife and washing it in the sink. Maybe he should hide anything dangerous from England until he recovered from the loss of the American. Clearing away the bottles of ale and the rest of the alcohol England had left lying around, he brought together enough ingredients to make crepes.

England stared down at the bandage on his arm, still scowling stubbornly. "_How rude._ He's the one who got in my house without permission, and he's the one talking about rude. Bloody hypocrite," he muttered, slowly rising to his feet and groaning in pain. He held his head in his hands for a moment, trying to soothe the headache a little, but decided his attempts would be fruitless. Once he decided it would be okay to walk around, he trudged to his bedroom, closing and locking the door shut(France was in his house. The last thing he wanted was to be caught off guard with his clothes off). Walking into the bathroom in his bedroom, he repeated the process, shutting and locking the door; he felt particularly paranoid when France was around, and probably for good reason. He disrobed, not bothering to turn on the light as he knew it would just hurt his head, and stepped into the shower slowly, trying not to fall over. He felt incredibly dizzy at the moment, but he managed to stand up as he turned on the water, letting the warm water fall on his hair and body, standing silently for a few moments before he started to wash himself, movements slow. _I hope the bandage is waterproof, _he thought, glancing down at his left wrist, just able to see it in the dim light streaming in through the window. He shrugged; France could rebandage it if it wasn't. He could do it himself, even... He cleaned the traces of blood left on his skin that had leaked through his shirt overnight, and when he finished, he stepped carefully out of the shower, probing around in the darkness a little before he found a towel, beginning to dry himself off.

Wrapping the towel around his waist slowly, Arthur unlocked then opened the bathroom door slowly, checking to make sure France hadn't weaseled into his room somehow, and sighing in relief as he found his room empty. Walking to a dresser, he pulled out the clothes he would wear today, clenching his jaw a little. The clothes he would be wearing to America's funeral...

No. He wouldn't go. France would never be able to drag him out of his house, not for something like that. It was as if the Frenchman was purposely doing this, just to see England hurt. Not that he'd be surprised; he and France had been at each other's throats since... He couldn't even remember when their rivalry started; that's how long they had hated each other. Or, at least, that's how long Arthur had hated Francis. Putting his clothes on and only stumbling a couple of times, he unlocked the bedroom door and walked out, half-expecting to be attacked by the Frenchman. However, he was instead greeted with the mouth-watering scent of something sweet, a pastry of some kind... He had to admit it, France was damn good at cooking, and the aroma of his food was testament to that. He stepped over to the kitchen, finding France just finishing up the crepes.

France, hearing footsteps behind him, quickly finished putting strawberries and whipped cream in the pastries and wrapping them up into rolls. Placing the crepes on a plate, he took the dish along with a butter knife and fork to a table and indicated England to take a seat. "I've already eaten lunch, but you can have breakfast now," he mused, going to the sink to wash his hands, then the frying pan he'd used to make the crepes.

Arthur nodded, sitting down in front of the plate of delicious-looking food. He picked up the fork and knife, beginning to eat as if he hadn't had a breakfast this good in weeks. Which, he hadn't, but like hell he would ever tell France that. Finishing in record time, he set the silverware down on the plate and picked it up, rising to his feet to wash it. However, he didn't get very far; France took the plate from his hands and went to wash it for him.

"So, don't I get a 'thank you' for my efforts? You seemed to enjoy it," France mused teasingly, scrubbing the plate clean, the silverware soon following.

England huffed a little, scowling slightly at the teasing. "Fine... It was good, so thank you," he mumbled.

France put everything away, then turned to England again. "Merci... Now, we really should get going," he told the Brit, his expression becoming more serious.

"I've already told you... I'm not going to the bloody funeral. I've already seen his dead body... I-I don't need to see it again," England said flatly, but his voice began to crack with emotions he was trying to hide. "Just go yourself; you wasted your time coming here if you think I'm going."

France frowned, shaking his head. "Non, Angleterre. I've told you; you _have _to go. It's not your choice; it's not my choice, either. I'd rather not go myself; funerals are so depressing. But, I have to go too," he said. "If I have to carry you out of this house, I'll do it, only because you'd get both of us into serious trouble if you stayed here," he added sternly, crossing his arms across his chest.

Arthur clenched his jaw, turning away from the Frenchman. "S-still not going... Get out, frog." His voice quavered ever so slightly, and he cleared his throat to stop it. He was holding back tears as well as he could; the mere thought of seeing America in a coffin, waiting to be buried forever... He couldn't stand it in his mind; how could he ever endure it in real life? He tried to shove the image from his still-aching brain, but it didn't work; not until France placed a hand on his shoulder and caused his whole body to freeze and his mind to go blank, quickly filled by thoughts of anger, fury even, and slight worry.

"Arthur... What did I just say? I'll carry you if I have to," France replied in a warning tone. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be, mon ami." His fingers' grip tightened ever so slightly on the Brit's shoulder. "Come now, you don't want Big Brother to ruin your pride like that," he added.

England pried France's hand from his shoulder, stepping away from the Frenchman. "No! Don't touch me, you fucking pervert! J-just... Just go! I don't give a damn about what your boss does to you if I don't come along! Leave me alone!" he shouted, his head once more throbbing in disapproval, but he didn't care. He just wanted France to get out. Out of his house, out of his country. Preferably out of Europe, too, but there wasn't much he could do about that. Though England was an island nation, France was basically his neighbor.

France heaved an exasperated sigh. It was obvious that England would never comply, so he had to take things into his own hands. Approaching the Englishman once more, he bent down a little and wrapped an arm around the Brit's waist firmly, then stood up, lifting England up to his shoulder almost easily; the younger nation was considerably light, and though France wasn't the strongest nation out there, he often carried people(usually women) around(usually to his bedroom). "Alright, then... We're going," he announced, beginning to walk into the living room, towards the front door.

Arthur gasped audibly when he was lifted up, and he struggled violently. "Fuck you! Let me down, you swine! I swear, if you don't put me down right now I'm going to kill you!" he threatened, face immediately reddening with humiliation, along with the sudden rush of blood to his brain because of the awkward weight shift. As France ignored him, walking out the door and outside, he whined. "France... I just ate! This is so uncomfortable," he complained. Not to mention, the light outside was just killing him. Though it wasn't as bright outside as it was in America yesterday, it was still painful for the hung over nation.

Francis rolled his eyes. "This isn't my fault. You're the one who refused to go," he said cooly. "If you're reconsidering, then I'd be glad to let you walk yourself," he added suggestively.

"Ugh... Fine, fine! Just let me down, bastard!" England groaned as he was finally put down, and he scowled at France. "I can't believe you actually tried to carry me!" he snapped, then began to walk down the sidewalk, France following suit.

"I told you I would, and I did," France replied. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

They walked in stuffy silence to the airport, but when they got there England refused to pay for his own plane ticket. France had to cough up the cash for both of their tickets, which he certainly had but was hesitant to use. Within the hour, they were seated on the plane, England sitting nearest to the window and shutting it because truthfully, his head was still banging in his skull. His expression was sour, and he'd started to cry about three times before they even landed, but he managed to stop before France noticed(that, or the Frenchman decided to pretend he didn't see it).

When the plane touched the ground, Arthur had to be dragged out by France or else he'd just mope where he was seated for God knows how long. Once they were in the airport, France was still forcing England along, and as soon as they got in the cab to go to the funeral home, England was begging not to be taken there with tears trailing down his cheeks, and France had to turn his heart to stone before he could let England's heartbroken pleas get to him.

Luckily, before the Frenchman could start crying himself, the cab arrived at their destination. However, that didn't mean England was any less unwilling to go; in fact, he was even more desperate to be left in the cab, to be pardoned to go home, so France once more mentioned carrying him to see if the results would make Arthur walk himself. Though it was worth a try, the Brit refused passionately, and England had to be carried with sobbing malcontent to where the funeral would be held.

The nations that had already gathered watched the bizarre scene with skeptical expressions, raised brows, and in some cases, sympathetic gazes. France set England down, and the Briton sank into a seat weakly, crying his heart out though the funeral had yet to begin. France sat beside him with a sigh, glancing at the Brit momentarily in pity. He truly was a miserable sight to see, and the wretched nation gave no notice to anyone, even those who would pat his shoulder reassuringly, and frankly, he didn't care that he was there anymore. He only cared about the fact that America, his little brother, was here, and that it would be the very last time he'd ever see him. He could never speak again, never laugh that annoying laugh again. He could never proclaim that he was the hero ever again. Everything about America irked England, but he still loved him dearly, as a brother should. He missed him, oh, how he missed him...

He was still weeping throughout the entire service, every line spoken by the priest ripping a sob from his throat. Every mention of Alfred, of God receiving him, made him even more woebegone. As various nations walked up to pay their respects to the American(which Arthur was sure everyone did just to be polite), they had spoken in reserved sadness; Arthur was unable to speak.

England's sobbing continued as every speech was made, but one of them made him fall silent in shock. That voice... He heard a small boyish voice, a strangely familiar voice, and forced himself to look up. He wiped the tears away from his face to see if his assumption was correct, and as soon as he saw the boy's face, his blonde hair and exuberant sky-blue eyes, his jaw nearly dropped. "Tyler," he breathed in disbelief.

A pair of azure eyes turned to England, and France raised a brow. "Tyler..? You know that kid, Angleterre?" he whispered, surprised. France had never met the kid before, that's for sure; how had Arthur met him?

The Englishman nodded a little, glancing at France momentarily. "Y-yeah... Saw him at the airport yesterday," he replied, absolutely stunned.

France nodded, falling silent and listening to the rest of the boy's speech; maybe this boy would have something interesting to say.

"... So, even though Alfred's gone, I'll be here in his stead." Looking up from the little script he'd had in his hand, he gave a winning smile, something that hardly seemed appropriate in a funeral, but everyone was too busy staring at the child in disbelief to really notice. "I don't know how you guys feel, but I'm here to make sure you know that even if Alfred's gone, America is still here, only his new name is Tyler Jones."


End file.
